Colours of the South

by Leah Hope

A few hours later, food and the best part of a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon gone, Gil and Bridget stretched out on the loungers, catching the last of the warm, evening sun.

  “I think I might have a wander in to the village, I just feel like a beer to round things off,” said Gil, getting up from his lounger.

  “There’s plenty in the fridge isn’t there, why not have one of those?”

  “It’s not just the beer, I need to stretch my legs after being in the car.” Bending down to rub his knees, Gil went on, “I think I may be getting a touch of rheumatism you know.”

  “It’s probably just a bit if stiffness but if it doesn’t clear up, you should get it checked out when we get home,” said Bridget, knowing full well that Gil had an aversion to doctors and would do anything to avoid visiting their GP.

  “It’s probably nothing, I’ll see if I can get something from the pharmacy in the village first.”

  “Well you make sure you do, I can’t drive and we’ve got no other way of getting home.”

  “Yes ok, don’t go on, I’ll see you later, sure you don’t want to come?”

  “No, I’ve got a bit of a headache, it’s probably the wine or too much sun so I think I’ll have an early night.”

  “I’ll take a key so there’s no need to wait up.”

  “Have fun,” said Bridget as she made her way upstairs with her book.

  *

  Gil realised that he had a slight headache too, so keen to avoid the over-exuberant Pete McNally in the Mirabeau, he headed for Chez Mimi. He and Bridget usually sat at one of the little tables outside on the pavement with the other tourists but tonight he went inside, after all, he said to himself, he was one of the locals now. The interior of the café was dark and gloomy and not particularly inviting, mainly because it was virtually impossible for any light to penetrate through the nicotine stained lace curtains that hung limply on the narrow windows. I think Mimi, whoever she is, needs to give those a wash, Gil thought to himself as he tried to peer outside. He wasn’t alone in pondering on the café’s eponymous owner. No-one in Saint-Rémy could remember who Mimi was or even if she had ever existed at all. Some said she was a cat who adopted the original owner while others swore Mimi was a “lady of ill repute” from one of the seedier districts of Paris. Either version served the local rumour mill very well. Gil settled himself at the bar with a beer, relieved to find that it was quiet inside. The only other customers were a group of rheumy-eyed local men sipping silently on their pastis as they enjoyed a game of dominoes and two rather surly looking leather-jacketed youths playing at the babyfoot table.

  Gil looked around at the café’s rather depressing interior. There were four formica topped tables along the right-hand wall, separated from each other by wooden partitions. These were clearly reserved for diners whereas a half dozen or so little round tables that filled the area near the bar were intended for customers wanting only drinks. The walls, painted in the putty colour so favoured throughout much of France, also heavily nicotine stained like the curtains, did little to improve the ambience. There were some interesting photos on the walls though, Gil thought, as he eyed a handful of old black and white images that were unmistakably of Saint-Rémy. From the look of the few cars that were in the streets, Gil guessed that the photos were taken around the 1930s or 40s. It was clear that apart from different names above the shop windows, very little had changed in the village since then. One photo in particular caught his eye. It was of a market scene and in the foreground was a young woman buying bread from one of the stalls. Gil peered closer at the woman’s face, there was something vaguely familiar about the eyes and the angle of the head. If he wasn’t mistaken, the woman in the photo was a very young, and a very attractive Béatrice Blanchard. Gil was struck by how her youth and vibrancy contrasted sharply to the frail, elderly woman he had met the day before. It was easy to forget that old people had ever been young at all, he thought. He wondered what course her life might have taken during the intervening years. Had she ever married? Had children? He would love to know. Shivering slightly in spite of the still warm evening, Gil quickly finished his beer and set off for home.

  Dusk was falling as Gil turned off the main road and into the track that led to Les Cerisiers. Just as he drew level with the back garden of Les Volets Bleus, something caught his eye. He looked over the wire fence and was surprised to see Tony, who seemed to be digging in a rough patch of ground on the far side of the garden.

  “It’s a bit late for gardening isn’t it?” Gil shouted.

  Tony looked up, clearly startled. “Yes, it is a bit.” He paused and then went on, “We spend so many hours at the shop these days I don’t get much time for planting. Sorry I can’t stop, I need to get these seed potatoes in before it gets dark.”

  “Don’t let me stop you then,” said Gil as he waved and walked the remaining few yards up the track to home.

  The house was in darkness and Gil couldn’t hear any sounds coming from upstairs. Wait until I tell Bridget in the morning that Tony was gardening in the dark, she’ll think he’s bonkers, he thought to himself as he climbed the stairs.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “He was doing what?” said Bridget, almost choking on her pain au raisin the following morning.

  “Planting potatoes, like I said, but how he managed to see what he was doing, lord knows, the man must be mad,” said Gil, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “But doesn’t that strike you as odd, you don’t plant potatoes in the middle of July, they go in at the beginning of the year! Don’t you remember the little vegetable patch that dad had at the top of the garden. He used to say that the best time for planting was around the time of the last frost. You should be digging then up in July, not putting them in.”

  “Well you know me, I haven’t exactly got green fingers have I? Anyway, why should he say he was planting potatoes if he wasn’t?”

  “That’s what I’m beginning to wonder. So tell me exactly what you saw, did he have a spade, did you actually see any potatoes?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t take that much notice! Besides it was nearly dark and Tony was at the far side of the garden, you know that rough patch furthest away from the fence. He was bending down and had some sort of a tool in his hand, probably a trowel, that’s all I could make out.”

  “This sounds more and more bizarre, you definitely need a spade if you’re going to plant potatoes, are you sure you didn’t see one?”

  “Oh for goodness sake Bridget, I don’t know why you’re so suspicious. Maybe he’d dug the ground earlier and was just planting the potatoes when I saw him. I’m sure there’s some perfectly logical explanation! You and that imagination of yours, what do you think he was up to, burying a body or something?”

  “Don’t be silly, of course I don’t. But there’s one way to find out what he was up to though.”

  “You’re not going to ask Tony are you? He’ll think it’s us who’s gone mad!”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to embarrass you. After breakfast, I want you to keep watch while I go and have a look round. I’ll take a trowel and if he’s been planting potatoes, I should be able to find them!”

  “You’ve got to be kidding, you can’t go poking your nose around in someone else’s garden, what if someone sees you?”

  “That’s why I want you to come with me to keep a look out. Anyway, there shouldn’t be anyone around, Tony and Heather will be at the shop and hardly anyone comes up the lane other than us. I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss!”

  “It’s you that’s making the fuss, suspecting poor old Tony of goodness knows what!”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, I don’t suspect him of anything in particular, I’m just curious as to why he told you a deliberate lie.”

  “Well you carry on, I don’t want any part of this, I’m going to see if there are any English papers left in the village.”

  With that, Gil stormed out of the house leaving Bridget to plan the sortie into Tony
and Heather’s garden by herself.

  Gil returned three quarters of an hour later with a two day old English newspaper.

  “Just wanted to read what the pundits have to say about England’s first innings collapse,” he said to a rather quiet Bridget. “I can’t believe our openers let us down, again, I’d replace both of them if it was up to me. Do you know if it hadn’t been for the tail enders we’d have been all out for less than a hundred. Any more coffee left?”

  “No, I’ve just had the last so you’ll have to make a fresh pot.”

  Bridget was sitting on the largest of the two sofas in the living area flicking through a magazine.

  “He wasn’t planting potatoes you know, I dug all over the surface of that patch of land and there’s absolutely nothing there, apart from a few holes that were probably made by Sultan.”

  “I can’t believe you went over there, it would have served you right if you’d got caught, what on earth would you have said if Tony or Heather had found you?”

  “But they didn’t, did they?! Anyway, aren’t you the remotest bit interested in why Tony told you a deliberate lie, doesn’t it strike you as just a teensy bit suspicious?” said Bridget incredulously.

  “Well I suppose it is a bit odd, but they’re such nice people, I can’t believe they’d get up to anything underhand, I mean we’ve know them for years.”

  “But we don’t really know them at all, if you add up all the time we’ve spent in their company since we first started coming here then it doesn’t come to more than a few weeks. How well can you get to know someone in that time, I mean really get to know them?”

  “Yes, but Helen and Doug see them all the time and I can’t imagine them associating with anyone who’s even the slightest bit dodgy.”

  “So you do think Tony was up to something dodgy then? That’s some progress I suppose!”

  “No I didn’t say that, you’re twisting things again! Ok, I will admit it’s a bit odd, but no more than that so can we leave it there, please, I’d like to finish my paper.”

  Gil buried his face in his paper which clearly signalled that the conversation was at an end.

  Bridget sat back on the sofa, deep in thought. You might be happy to leave it there Gil Honeyman, but I’ve only just started, she said to herself.

  *

  As Gil and Bridget crossed the square to the Mirabeau that evening, they saw Doug and Helen coming from the opposite direction. Doug waved and pointed in the direction of the bar. Gil gave him the thumbs up sign in return.

  “I think this is the first time I’ve ever had an aperitif before a fish and chip supper!” laughed Helen, as the four sat themselves down at a little table in the bar overlooking the square. Helen was in casual mode tonight, or at least as close to casual as she ever got. She was wearing designer jeans, a white silk vest and a little pale blue linen jacket over the top, her hair tied in a simple, low ponytail. By comparison, Bridget felt completely overdressed in a flowing green ankle length dress which she wore with a lacy long sleeved cardigan to cover up her arms.

  “I think there might be a thunderstorm later on, it’s been so humid today, I think we’d better eat inside,” said Doug, taking a large gulp of his beer.

  “Good idea,” said Gil, “I thought those clouds looked a bit threatening earlier on.”

  After ten minutes of small talk, one of the French waitresses who was on duty came to tell them that their table was ready.

  “I think Pete needs to exercise some portion control, I think I’ve got a whole whale here!” Doug said minutes later as the waitress set down an enormous plate of cod and chips in front of him.

  “Well I’m going to give it my best shot,” said Gil, laughing.

  “Me too,” said Bridget, “we’re eating for England now so we can’t let the side down!”

  In complete contrast, Helen looked horrified at the mountain of food in front of her and immediately started to remove the thick batter from her cod. She shared most of her chips with Doug and Gil but gamely made her way through the rest of her fish. Bridget, Gil and Doug nodded weakly when the waitress asked if they wanted dessert. Huge, steaming bowls of apple crumble and custard soon followed.

  “I don’t know how you three do it,” said Helen, “I haven’t got room for a thing.”

  After dessert had been cleared away and coffees had been ordered, Bridget, who could wait no longer to hear what Béatrice had had to say, leaned towards Helen.

  “You were going to tell us what Béatrice said to you the morning after we came to tea.”

  “Oh yes, I’d almost forgotten,” said Helen. “The more I think about it the more I think she’s getting herself quite confused, so I don’t think we should set too much store by what she had to say.”

  “But what did she say exactly?” asked Bridget rather impatiently.

  “She just sort of rambled on really, she mentioned a scandal again, but this is where I think she’s getting muddled. First of all, she said it was to do with money but then she started talking about a baby.”

  “A baby?” said Bridget, raising her eyebrows. “Did she say whose baby?”

  “I asked her that and she said there was a local family and the daughter got pregnant when she was quite young, so they moved away. She remembers that the girl’s boyfriend was distraught, she thinks he killed himself shortly afterwards,” said Helen.

  “Oh dear, it all sounds very tragic, does she remember the name of the family?” Bridget asked.

  “Not the last name I’m afraid, but she thinks one of the girls might have been called Marguerite or Colette, or it could have been Claudette, but she’s really not sure,” Helen replied.

  “Do we know when all of this happened?” asked Bridget.

  “I don’t think she knows, it could have been ten years ago or fifty years ago, it’s hard to tell. She talked about the war too, her thoughts seemed to be all over the place, poor thing.”

  “Did she say if this had anything to do with Bernard Sellier?” Gil asked, suddenly taking an interest.

  “Not in so many words, but I had the feeling that he or his family were involved somehow, but then she clammed up on me and I didn’t want to risk upsetting her,” Helen replied.

  “No, quite right too,” said Bridget, mindful of her last conversation with Béatrice. “We’ll just have to make the most of what information she’s given us.”

  “What do you mean by ‘making the most of the information’?” Gil asked, clearly worried that his sister now had the bit well and truly between her teeth.

  “Well we’ve got to get to the bottom of this, we’ve got a couple of possible names, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out who the family were,” said Bridget.

  “And what do we do then?” Gil asked, scornfully.

  “Well, go to the police I suppose,” said Bridget, inwardly cross with herself that she hadn’t thought the next stage through.

  “And tell them what exactly? There’s absolutely no evidence that any of Béatrice’s ramblings are anything to do with the murder. Besides, they’ve got this greengrocer chap in custody and he’s admitted to owning the murder weapon. Case closed as far as I’m concerned,” said Gil, hoping that his sister would see it that way too.

  “But if he did carry out the killing, why would he hide the rifle, clearly marked with his initials don’t forget, just a few yards away from where the body was found? Wouldn’t it have made more sense to take it away with him and get rid of it somewhere miles away?” asked Bridget.

  “That’s a very good point,” said Doug, “why leave the rifle where it was bound to be found almost immediately, unless of course someone was trying to deliberately implicate him? As you say Bridget, with his initials carved on the stock, there was no way Janot could deny it was his.”

  “I think this is beginning to look like a bit of a stitch up,” said Bridget, “the killer took advantage of Janot’s row with the Mayor, and used his rifle to carry out the killing. You two know Janot, do you thin
k he’s capable of murder?” said Bridget looking directly at Doug and Helen.

  “Well I certainly don’t, he’s such a charming man, quiet, and very obliging, I’ve never even seen him lose his temper,” said Helen.

  “Well he certainly lost it with the Mayor, didn’t he? He would have hit him alright if those chaps hadn’t intervened,” said Doug.

  “But maybe he was provoked, particularly if the Mayor’s decision was going to threaten his livelihood,” said Bridget.

  “Exactly,” said Gil, “the man is prone to violence when threatened!”

  “Ok, ok, I accept that,” said Bridget holding up her hands, “but I still think it was rather stupid to leave his own rifle almost next to the body.”

  “Maybe he panicked or he just hid it in the bushes with the intention of picking it up later, there would be plenty of people milling around until well into the small hours and he couldn’t risk being seen with it,” said Doug.

  “That makes sense,” said Gil.

  “Yes, but how come no-one saw him with the gun beforehand?” said Bridget. Turning to Helen, she went on, “Do you remember Helen that you pointed him out to me as the man who had had the row with the Mayor? he was sitting at one of the trestle tables, enjoying his supper. He didn’t have the rifle with him then, did he?”

  “Yes I remember, he was with his wife and a group of friends,” said Helen. “He seemed to be having a great time; he certainly didn’t look like a man with murder on his mind. I think I recall seeing him quite late on too, just before the fireworks started, he was dancing with his wife.”

  “Do we know what time the killing took place, I mean did anyone hear the shot?” Gil asked.

  “Not that we’ve heard,” said Doug. “But we all saw Sellier and his party leave for the sports ground at around eleven and as far as I can recall, Janot was still dancing in the square, like Helen said. As for anyone hearing the shot, I think that would have been well-nigh impossible. There was an awful lot of noise going on, what with the live music and then the fireworks.